


Expectations

by Oilan



Series: everyone is a dad (better title forthcoming) [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Ten Years Later, everyone is a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Combeferre and Enjolras travel to Carpentras to help Courfeyrac with his new bundle of joy
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: everyone is a dad (better title forthcoming) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263188
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> I share this kid-filled AU with the wonderful [marschallin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin). This story takes place a few weeks after Part I of the series written by her, and it might not make sense without reading that one first. Go read it, please -- it's amazing!

_Comb **(blot)** re,_

_Hope you are well. Lucille and I are ha(blot) to announce the birth of our daugh **(blot)** , Félice-Alphonsine. Everything went as well as one could expect, **(blot)** both mother and baby are recovering nicely. I hope you **(blot)** call your promise to **(blot)** her godfather, and **(illegible)**._

_I would therefore beg you to visit **(blot)** soon as you can._

_Your friend,_

_Courfeyr **(blot)**_

* * *

This strange missive had been received at breakfast, and Combeferre had been staring at it so intently that it was a great while before he could notice anything else, much less attend to his food. It was so unlike anything Courfeyrac had ever written that only the signature -- or rather, the partial one -- verified it as genuine. The whole of it was so full of blots and inky fingerprints, written in a smudged scrawl rather than Courfeyrac's looping handwriting that it was hardly legible. The terseness too was a surprise; he had never before received less than a page of correspondence from Courfeyrac in the past. Struggling to make sense of it, Combeferre was so absorbed in the letter that he was unaware that the rest of the household had fallen silent as well, watching him.

When he could puzzle over it no longer, he looked up to find Adèle-Sophie and Mademoiselle Bescond -- he could not yet bear to call her by her given name -- looking expectantly at him. Little Paul gurgled to himself in Mademoiselle Bescond's lap. Enjolras, seated at the end of the table, was too busy blotting spilled jam off Marcelline's frock to do more than glace over at him curiously.

"I can guess what news that brings," said Adèle-Sophie, nodding at the letter. She tried for a smile, but it came out strained. "I hope everything went smoothly?"

"I seems so." Combeferre tried not to laugh at the confusion in Enjolras' expression as he cast another glance at him, which cleared when he added, "Courfeyrac has a daughter, and is asking for us to visit." He paused, almost sheepishly. "I daresay you can spare us for a week or so?"

Everything had been fine lately, hovering at a sort of precarious equilibrium. Several weeks had passed, and the canopy of tension over the household had lifted somewhat. If Combeferre was honest, very little had changed following his and Adèle-Sophie's separation. He still slept in his dressing room. Adèle-Sophie still greeted him with cheerfulness at breakfast before discussing her latest bit of reading. Enjolras was present whenever Combeferre needed him and made himself quietly useful, lessening any strain Combeferre might feel by his circumstances. And Mademoiselle Bescond was still nervous, kind, and took no liberties. In fact, Combeferre was surprised at how little she had visited since that first dinner together, and noticed that she never came to the house without an explicit invitation. An unexpected pang of guilt struck him when he realized this. Perhaps Courfeyrac's invitation had come at precisely the right moment, and offered a short relief for them all.

It seemed Adèle-Sophie thought so too -- they had, after all, always been of one mind. She smiled again, and refilled his and Mademoiselle Bescond's cups of coffee. "A short trip would be just the thing for you, I think."

* * *

Combeferre and Enjolras set out for Carpentras early the following morning. The confusion surrounding Courfeyrac's note had given way somewhat to anxiety, and it occurred to Combeferre that something might have been very wrong -- wrong enough that Courfeyrac did not wish to include it in his letter. The briefness of the note was one thing, but the lack of the enthusiasm Combeferre would expect in a new father -- especially one who, at a party seven months earlier, had tipsily drawn him aside and happily sobbed out the good news all over Combeferre's evening coat -- was yet more concerning.

And then there was that phrase, that the birth had gone "as well as one could expect". Combeferre had attended his fair share of births when the local midwives needed assistance and had learned that the safest course was to have no expectations. The number of things that could go terribly wrong was shocking. He was discomfited, but could decipher nothing more from the letter. He brought along his medical bag, which seemed to set Enjolras more ill at ease than the note had. Combeferre caught him frowning at it pensively now and then, when their conversation in the stagecoach lapsed into silence.

"Courfeyrac would have told us if the baby was ill," Enjolras offered finally, as they rolled to a stop in Carpentras later that day. 

Combeferre alighted from the carriage and voiced no response; it seemed a statement meant to comfort Enjolras himself more than anything.

But whatever they had imagined to find, nothing could have prepared them for the sight that greeted them after knocking at Courfeyrac's door. Enjolras had hardly drawn his hand back before it was flung open with alarming force -- not by a servant, but by Courfeyrac himself -- and his appearance left his friends speechless.

His hair in utter disarray, wearing nothing but wrinkled trousers, a half-tucked shirt blotched with a large yellow stain, and one frayed brace, Courfeyrac stared at them in disbelief for a moment before flinging himself upon their shoulders with a cry of, "Oh! Thank God! Help us, please-"

Combeferre and Enjolras cast a look of alarm at each other over Courfeyrac's back. As he clutched them to him, they could hear a loud, high-pitched wailing. Courfeyrac stiffened and pulled back from them, near tears.

"Three wet nurses, our maid, and our housekeeper all quit, one after the other. They couldn't help. They couldn't bear it anymore-"

"Courfeyrac," said Combeferre sharply, trying to push him to elaborate usefully. "What has happened? Is the baby ill? Is it Lucille?"

" _No,_ thank God." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "Though _she_ should be resting! Instead she has been helping me to handle- to handle-" He grasped Combeferre's lapels tightly. "You can hear it, can't you?"

Indeed, they could. The cry had not ceased, instead having risen in volume until it sounded as though it was emanating from right in front of them, ringing in their ears. It set the teeth on edge, but even so, Combeferre shook his head.

"Newborns cry-"

"Not like this!" Courfeyrac fisted his hands into his hair, rendering it yet more wild. "Day, night, it doesn't matter. Nothing stops it! The last nurse gave me the name of a priest who performs exorcisms. She said she had never seen anything like this in all her years, and so it must be the work of the devil. And what if she's right?"

While they were speaking, Enjolras was gently trying to shepherd Courfeyrac into his own house rather than having him remain in a manic, half-dressed state on the doorstep. Courfeyrac went reluctantly, and Combeferre followed his friends with their luggage in tow.

As they walked down the hall, the wailing grew even louder, until it was so deafening that Combeferre had to resist the urge to cower before it. 

They soon reached the parlor, which was in a state of shocking disorder. Bedding was piled up in one corner, soiled diapers overflowing in a washbasket in another. The sofa-table and sideboard were covered with plates holding barely-touched food. It was evident that Courfeyrac and his wife had been living solely in this room since their last nurse had left them to fend for themselves.

In the center of the chaos, Lucille was sitting on a sofa, her hair disheveled and falling from where she had hastily pinned it, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder as she tried unsuccessfully to nurse her new daughter. Enjolras averted his eyes, but Combeferre was moved with sympathy as he watched the baby struggle to push away from her, screaming all the while.

She looked up at them, shadows beneath her eyes, and twitched her dressing gown closed impatiently.

"I just don't know what's wrong," she said without preamble. "She is always crying, she hardly eats and sleeps -- I don't know where she is getting the energy to fuss all the time. At least we know her lungs are in good condition." Lucille tried to smile, but her face crumpled. Finding his wife's distress unbearable, Courfeyrac rushed forward to embrace her, but was prevented by his child's flailing little fists, which fought their way out of her blankets when he came near.

Both parents seemed on the verge of tears now, and so Combeferre said matter-of-factly, "Not to worry. Give her to me, if you please, and maybe we can find an answer to this. A touch of colic perhaps? Enjolras, will you bring my bag-"

Combeferre took the baby gently and lay her out on one side of the sofa. She calmed slightly, still crying but at a markedly reduced volume, but writhed unhappily as he examined her. Babies never liked being poked and prodded, but Combeferre had learned to watch carefully for signs that the baby was shying away from him, a potential indication of pain. Thankfully, this did not seem to be the case. Félice-Alphonsine seemed to have all her little limbs in working order, no pain or bloat when he pressed at her belly, and normal heart, lung, and gut sounds when he examined her with his flexible stethoscope.

Lucille watched him, both curiosity and worry shadowing her exhausted face. Combeferre felt another wave of sympathy for her. Her life, he knew, had changed much too rapidly to be comfortable in the past year or so. She had been known to Combeferre and Enjolras for a great many years at this point -- first as a pretty acquaintance of Courfeyrac's he had met at some party while they were all still students, then a very good friend, a mistress, and had gradually become more and more like a wife in all but title. Having first bonded over Romantic literature, Courfeyrac had encouraged her to try her hand at writing, and she had published some Gothic fiction under a pen name. A reader of everything, she could always be counted on for a spirited discussion of her latest book. Combeferre liked her immensely.

The pair had finally married some months previously -- so recently that Combeferre sometimes caught himself still referring to her as Mademoiselle Chapin -- and if the date of their marriage and the date of their daughter's birth did not quite align themselves within the boundaries of propriety, everyone turned a blind eye. Marriage could take a great deal of adjustment, and even more so with a new infant.

Frowning at this line of thought, and at the lack of any findings in her physical examination, he asked Courfeyrac and Lucille about the baby’s eating, her sleeping habits, anything at all that could hint at an illness, but their answers were all indicative a thriving, though fussy, newborn.

"She seems healthy to me, though I can examine her again later to see if any changes arise." He received two blank expressions in response to this lack of an answer, so he added pointedly, "Perhaps Enjolras might give you both a reprieve for a while."

Taking the hint, Enjolras scooped up the crying infant and whisked her away to some other part of the house. The new parents' shoulders visibly relaxed, and Lucille slumped fully against the sofa cushions.

"No one ever prepares you for this sort of thing," she said quietly. "For nine months -- for my whole life, really -- everyone always talks about how wonderful it is to have a baby, how precious and sweet they are. My own mother cannot stop talking to me about how much joy motherhood brought her."

"You are doing a fine job," said Courfeyrac, his voice tight. "This is my fault; I'm certain of it. I was such a difficult child that Fate has decided to pay me back tenfold in my parents' name."

"Nonsense," Combeferre said, trying not to smile at the absurdity of this notion. "Some babies are just a handful, and she may well grow out of it sooner than you think."

Even as he said this, he realized that he had no experience in this regard. Of course, he had loved his own children before they had even been born and it was impossible that he should not continue to adore them under any circumstances, but they were also a joy to look after -- so much so that he could even find amusement in their foibles. An endearingly messy eater and stubborn beyond measure, Marcelline was also proving herself to be a spirited debater. Combeferre delighted in it, even when those debates were an impassioned plea for a later bedtime or an extra helping of dessert. And little Paul, as though trying to make amends for his strenuous birth, was a sweet and gentle baby, hardly fussing and happiest when snuggled warmly against a family member's chest. 

Despite everything that had happened recently, Combeferre could at least count himself extremely lucky in that regard. Thought he had been away from home for under a day, he suddenly missed his children terribly.

"Come," he said finally. "We three might work on tidying while Enjolras is keeping Félice-Alphonsine occupied. You will both feel better once we do something else productive, and once your house is more livable."

Lucille nodded in weary agreement and made to stand, but Courfeyrac lay a hand on her shoulder to prevent her.

"No, my dear. Please rest -- you have hardly slept since the birth. Combeferre and I can handle cleaning ourselves."

She merely pressed his hand gratefully.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac busied themselves for the next hour or so, first clearing the parlor of its mess and then working their way upstairs. After only a few minutes of stripping down the beds and sorting the dirty linens from the clean, Courfeyrac was bleary-eyed and swaying where he stood from fatigue. Combeferre sent him downstairs to his wife and continued without him, working his way from room to room.

A long while later, the task was done. Satisfied that he had spared his friends a significant amount of time and trouble, Combeferre gathered up the dirty linens and brought them downstairs to make a pile to send to the launderer's. By this time it was late in the afternoon, and as they had all skipped a midday meal, he turned his mind towards refreshment.

When he poked his head into the parlor to ask what dinner he might fetch them all, he found Courfeyrac and Lucille slumped over at opposite ends of the sofa, both fast asleep and snoring loudly. For a moment, Combeferre was impressed at their ability to be able to sleep with such noise filling their house, but then he realized that there was no noise at all. Everything was still and peaceful. Curious, Combeferre went back upstairs, wandering the rooms until he found Enjolras and little Félice-Alphonsine.

They were in the nursery. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, and Enjolras was sitting in the nursing chair holding the bundled infant. His back was to the door, but he heard Combeferre's soft footfalls as he hovered on the threshold and nodded for him to come in. At first, Combeferre supposed the baby to be asleep at last, but as he tiptoed up behind them, he saw that her eyes were open.

She had, miraculously, stopped crying, and Combeferre could see her features for the first time -- and was struck with the wonder only a new baby could inspire. Félice-Alphonsine's cheeks were plump and rosy, a tuft of auburn hair sticking straight up from her head, and Combeferre had to smile at her little nose: A tiny mirror image of Courfeyrac's own. Her eyes were round and wide, not yet darkened from the blue-grey hue often present after birth, and she was gazing up at Enjolras with pure adoration. From what little of Enjolras' face he could see as he stood behind him, Combeferre could tell he was smiling.

"I do not understand why Courfeyrac and Lucille were having such difficulties," said Enjolras, presenting Félice-Alphonsine with his finger, which she immediately took in one tiny hand. "She is a very well-behaved child."

Combeferre was about to point out that this statement was hardly fair, as children and animals alike were always immediately taken with Enjolras without his exerting any effort to win them over, but Enjolras looked up at him, his blue eyes bright, and the words died on Combeferre's lips.

"Look at the way she grasps my finger, Combeferre. Surely that is a sign of great intelligence. She is destined to be a scholar. A historian, or perhaps a renowned mathematician."

"I recall you saying the same about Marcelline when she was born." This uneasiness, this terrible constriction in his throat and chest, was familiar to him as well. He remembered it, a handful of years back, when he watched Enjolras hold Marcelline for the first time. It had startled him as much as it did now, but it was easier to push aside then, with Adèle-Sophie smiling at him from her bed, beautiful, exhausted, and happy.

"Not at all, said Enjolras. "It is obvious that Marcelline shall be a naturalist." These words were said lightly, but his smile was gone.

Combeferre swallowed. "Enjolras-"

It was lucky -- though Combeferre would not admit it to himself until later on -- that he was interrupted then, for he had no idea what he wanted to say. The door burst open and Courfeyrac and Lucille rushed into the room, awoken by their child's silence and afraid something was terribly wrong. Upon seeing Félice-Alphonsine held peacefully in Enjolras' arms, they burst into speech, demanding to know how he had soothed her, and Combeferre's sentiment was momentarily forgotten.


End file.
